


Cheeseburger Salad

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Positivity, F/M, Food Sex, Post-Episode: s09e13 The Purge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean hits his limit during the Canyon Valley clean-up he gets a chance to prove to Donna Hanscum exactly how wrong her ex was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheeseburger Salad

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for [Hellatus Prompt Fic Tuesday](http://itfeltpurefic.tumblr.com/hellatus) on my Tumblr blog. Original link with prompt is [here](http://itfeltpurefic.tumblr.com/post/91209990174/ok-monkey-dean-sherrif-hanscum-smut-with-an-extra).

They’re about halfway through the clean-up at Canyon Valley when Dean hits his limit.

He knows at least some of that is being off his game because of the damn roofies, and some of it is the mark on his arm, but mostly it’s Sam. This thing going on between them — this rift, Sam’s resentment at being alive — it hurts like nothing else can hurt. 

So Dean holes up in the Impala, jams Toys in the Attic into the tape deck, and commits to spacing out for a little while. Yeah, Sam’ll get all pissy about him peacing out or whatever, but at least it brings the amount of shit he can fuck up in one day to a bare minimum.

He’s kind of mumbling along to “Sweet Emotion” when Sheriff Donna Hanscum peeks in at him through the open window. 

“Agent Simmons?” 

He turns down the stereo. “Hey there, sheriff. How’re you holding up?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing. Ya look a little rough. No offense.”

“None taken,” he says, and gives her the kind of smile he knows she’ll see right through, but it’s the only one he’s got. “Sorry about your vacation.” 

“Yeah, me too.” She laughs, but it’s a pretty good match for Dean’s smile. “That Maritza lady said they’d refund me, though, which is something.” 

Dean nods. 

“Can’t say I’m sorry you stopped that killer but I kinda…well, I kinda wish you’d been a little slower about it. Whatever they had going here, it sure was working.”

“I don’t know about that,” Dean says, his memory of just how Canyon Valley was helping people with their weight all too clear. “And anyway, I meant it earlier. Doug’s a dick. Anyone who turns someone like out you doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“That’s real nice of you to say, agent.” 

He shakes his head. “Call me Dean.”

“Well then, Dean, you sure do know how to brighten up a girl’s day.” She’s blushing, sort of, and a little flustered, but her smile is genuine.

Dean glances past her at the Canyon Valley building. No sign of Sam, and the EMTs are still working. From experience, this could take a good long while. Plus, it’s not like Sammy needs his help. That much has been made abundantly clear over the last few days. 

“Hey, could you eat? I was thinking about grabbing some lunch. Might be nice to have a little company.”

She grins. “You betcha.”

Dean leans over and unlocks the passenger door.

* * *

“So, uh, do you even like salad?” Dean asks, his mouth full of what might possibly be the most welcome cheeseburger ever. Hell, anything with grease in it is better than 48 hours of all that so-called health spa ‘superfood.’

Donna just shrugs and spears a sad looking wedge of tomato with her fork. “I guess I’d better learn to, right?”

He eyes Donna’s plate and frowns. It’s basically just a giant house salad, all iceberg lettuce and tomato and some Italian dressing. She’s not even eating like Sam, who occasionally goes on these weird tangents about balancing proteins and fats and stuff with produce. 

“Yeah, but if you’re gonna live on salad, shouldn’t you get some chicken in there or something? It’s not like lettuce has anything good in it. That’s just crunchy green water. That ain’t food.”

“Easy for you to say. Look at you. You’re thin as a rail.”

“Only because I spend a lot of time running and I don’t always get three squares,” he says. “Also, I hate to burst your bubble, but my brother gives me shit about having some kind of muffin thing.”

“Muffin top?”

“That’s it, yeah,” Dean says with a nod and pops a couple of fries into his mouth. “I personally don’t see the big deal. I mean, muffins are awesome, right?” Dean breaks off half of what’s left of his burger and puts it on Donna’s plate. “There. Now it’s a cheeseburger salad. Totally acceptable.”

She looks at him, surprised. He winks. She blushes. 

They chat over lunch, and it’s funny the kinds of things they have in common. Their lives couldn’t be more opposite — Stillwater’s her hometown, she’s not much of a fighter, she’s one of five kids in a great big family — but they like a lot of the same things, and somehow they get to comparing scars across the table.

And boy does he have to lie about most of his, but swapping out “mob boss” for “wendigo” and so on does the trick for the most part with one particularly big exception that he doesn’t realize she’s seen until she asks him about the “big ol’ burn mark” on his arm. 

“Oh, uh, this?” He flexes his hand and runs his fingers over it. “This one’s…I guess you could say I got this one on purpose.”

“So like a tattoo?” 

He nods and pulls his sleeve down over it. 

“Looks like it hurt.”

“Yeah. It did.”

They’re silent together for a minute, probably because neither of them knows what to say. 

Dean takes a breath, licks his bottom lip, and then looks up at her. “Hey, so stop me if this is too forward, but you want to share a milkshake to go?”

* * *

They end up sharing more than a milkshake.

Like, he’s pretty sure that what the two of them intended to do in Donna’s kitchen — because he drives her home and she invites him in to share the shake — was get a couple of glasses to split out the semi-melty cookies and cream shake into. Except while she’s in the cupboards he sucks a mouthful through the straw, and she teases him about getting greedy, and he…

Well, he kind of impulsively shotguns it to her.

And, uh, turns out they both like that a lot. Like, making-out-up-against-the-cupboards-taking-turns-with-the-straw a lot. Sticky-kisses-down-necks a lot. Taking-their-shirts-off-and-doing-cold-ass-body-shots a lot.

“You shriek like a girl, Simmons.”

“It’s cold!” He says, but he’s laughing too much to be convincingly distressed.

And of course, she’s just as ridiculous when he bends her over the counter and pours a little onto her lower back. 

“That’s payback,” he tells her, and she swats him. 

He catches her hand and turns her so he can pull her into a kiss. 

“Not to be forward, agent,” she says, a little breathless when they part, “but I think you left your gun in your pocket.”

Dean lets his eyes flick down, then back to hers. “Is that a problem?”

“Heck no,” she says. 

“Okay,” he says, and leans in to kiss her again. A very deliberate, very accompanied-by-touching kind of kiss. He traces her throat with his fingertips, and her collarbone, and the underside of her breast. Her whole body moves against his. Her hands slip down from his hips to his ass. 

Dean eyes the height on the kitchen counter. Oh yeah. He can make this work. 

“Let’s get you out of these,” he says, and slides his fingers under the waistband of her yoga pants. He slides them down her hips, kissing her just below her navel as he lowers them further, then helps her out of her shoes and socks. Her panties are flowery cotton and he nuzzles the front of them, then smiles up at her. “Is it okay if these go, too?”

She smiles back, even though she looks kind of surprised and maybe a little overwhelmed. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says. He does like he did with the yoga pants, fingers in the waistband and easing them down slow. He slips a shoulder in behind her knee, supporting her with his body as he nibbles her inner thigh. As much as ice cream on skin has been good, he likes this too: clean and warm and intimate. “How about this?” 

Donna nods. 

Dean licks his lips and then lowers his head to the warmth between her legs. 

He’s tentative with his tongue at first, but her sighs make him bolder. The taste of her, tart and sharp, well damn if that’s not something he wants as much of as he can get. He doesn’t even mind the way she grabs at his hair and doesn’t let up. Truth be told, he freaking loves it, the way she just goes for it, especially when he brings a couple of fingers to the party and makes Donna come against his mouth. 

“Wow,” she says, when he leans back on his knees, starry-eyed and smiling at her. “That was—” 

“Just the starter if you want to keep going,” he says. His eyes flick down to the hard on in his jeans, then back to her face. “Do you want to keep going?”

“Oh yeah,” she tells him, still breathless. And then, because she’s fucking adorable, she follows it up with a “you betcha.” 

Dean’s smile widens to a full-on grin, and he gropes on the floor for his jacket. He fishes a couple of condoms out of the pocket, rolls one on, and then lifts her up onto the counter. He undoes his jeans — doesn’t need to take them off, honestly — and steps up between her legs. 

Counter sex is always a little awkward. The heights are funny, and human beings don’t always line up quite the way he expects. but once he gets them lined up and her ass on the edge of the formica, that’s everything he needs to get going. He fucks her up against the cupboards, next to the coffee maker, one hand on the small of her back and the other on her breasts, squeezing and teasing, or holding her in place when he bends down to suck a still-sticky nipple. 

He says her name against her neck, her breasts, her mouth. He whispers it in her ear. He cries it out when she digs her nails into his back, her legs tight around his hips, bucking up against him when he gets her off again with his thumb between them, teasing the edge of her clit until she’s shaking against him. 

She rides along and moves with him even when he lets himself go, no longer caring if he’s going to have bruises across his thighs from the edge of the counter. He comes with groan, covered in sweat that only half-cuts the stickiness on his chest. 

“Now that is what I call inter-agency cooperation,” she says as he pulls out of her, and they both crack up. 

He pulls his jeans up, drops the condom in the kitchen bin, and washes his hands. “Donna Hanscum, you are…freaking awesome. Don’t ever let anybody tell you otherwise, okay?” 

“And if they do?”

Dean grins. “Tell ‘em they’re gonna have to answer to the FBI about it.”


End file.
